I, Marcus
by Digsjin
Summary: Sheogorath shoves a Machiavellian schemer with a passion for Ancient Rome and Military History in general into the body of an Imperial Noble on the day of his birth during the Fourth Era. Watch as he comes, sees and conquers Tamriel. Elder Scrolls SI/OC
1. Prologue

Fortes Fortuna Juvat

September 21st, 2019; New York

Marcus Tullius Cicero, former Consul and Senator of Rome was without a doubt one of the finest orators to have ever lived. The man's speeches were over two thousand years old and more often than not didn't translate well into English and yet they were still held up as shining models of how to write persuasive speeches.

In copious surviving examples of his correspondence Cicero himself laid out three criteria one needed to keep in mind if one wanted to be a successful Orator, the strength of one's arguments which he surprisingly considered to be the least important part stating that "_more often than not it is emotion, not logic that is the deciding factor in Oratory,_" and Julius Caesar would encapsulate this perfectly when he wrote, "_People only believe what they wish to believe._"

Therefore according to Cicero, the way to make them wish to believe what you want them to believe could only be achieved through one's bearing, in my opinion, this makes quite a bit of sense, being confident or nervous could make or break one's arguments, after all, if the speaker didn't believe what he was saying why should the listener? The other thing he claimed helped was one's clothing, wearing an expensive _toga_ or nowadays a suit would lend one an air of gravitas that one did not necessarily possess, or at the very least not to the same degree.

I remembered Cicero's words just now because I realized that a case and point of exactly what _not_ to do was sitting across from me at this very moment.

He couldn't stop fidgeting, creasing his cheap suit, adjusting his collar, running his hands on his legs as if to restore circulation, until finally, his fingers steepled themselves together in a way that may as well have screamed: "_I'm nervous!_"

I sighed and took a nice long sip of the Cappuccino sitting in front of me, this had already been a long morning and given my current task I had a feeling it would be an even longer day. I straightened my tie and tried to make eye-contact with the man, meanwhile, his eyes were intensely scrutinizing anything and everything that wasn't me or the sheets of paper that indicated his performance during the last quarter.

"You know full well that there's nothing I can do, not at this stage at least," I said calmly and he flinched as if physically struck.

"Please sir, I'm begging you!" He said, his hands now pressed together as if he was praying to a higher deity, his begging pissed me off more than his failure to give a cohesive argument as to why he shouldn't be fired.

"I have a family, how will I pay for my daughter's tuition or the mortgage on my-" he rambled on and the appeal to my _pathos_ was rapidly wearing thin.

"You brought this on yourself by missing several days of work and completely ignoring our warnings to improve your performance," I interrupted coldly and with a glare that would've made Tywin Lannister proud, "logically… there's no reason to keep you in our employment, at this point you're nothing but a waste of a perfectly good salary."

"You can't just fire me, come on!" He exclaimed again, a feeble attempt and he knew it going by the fact that he was sweating buckets.

I pushed a brochure across the table that indicated the company's offered severance packages and with one final sip of my Cappuccino said: "Kindly clean out your desk."

The rest of the workday proceeded as normal, the monotony of the paperwork one had to handle when working in human resources only broken up by my lunch break, where I went to a very nice Indian restaurant and had chicken curry, average chicken curry if I was honest, _but then again it's cheap and very close to the office._

Still even as I was headed home for the day that firing still plagued my thoughts for some reason. It was somewhat understandable, our Headhunters took great pains to hire the most capable people so firing someone was a rare occurrence, an occurrence I disliked due to the extra work our department had to handle, but it never weighed on my conscience before now.

I sighed heavily, _something I'm doing a lot recently._ And when I exhaled my breath produced a visible vapor reminding me of the fact that Christmas would be sooner than I thought and I should probably procure some gifts for my immediate family, _or I could have Jean do it_.

"_Secretaries normally help out with that sort of thing, right?"_ I mulled it over while waiting for the subway to arrive, and pulled out a pack of my favorite cigars, _Davidoff Gold_, the brand was recently discontinued so this would be one of the last times I would have one, _too bad it's wasted on such an average day_.

I heard the subway arriving precisely when the schedule indicated it would, a rare occurrence in this city and unluckily for me, it arrived before I could finish my cigar. I glared at thin air as if God himself would be cowed by it, threw my lit cigar on the ground and stomped on it so I wouldn't be responsible for _The Fire of New York 2: Electric Boogaloo_.

I began to approach it so I could poach a seat from the rest of the commuters, but rather than stopping just short of the yellow line, beyond which it would be dangerous to approach while the train was still in motion, I felt a hard shove and tumbled towards the tracks, _with an oncoming train_, my brain supplied unhelpfully.

The way inertia worked my body turned around on its own so that the last thing I'd see was the distraught face of the man whom I'd fired a few hours ago. A few choice and very colorful expletives ran through my mind at the sight, but rather than voicing any of them a part of my mind that seemed to be rearing its head far too often for my liking today supplied a chipper, "_Well, it looks like God was listening after all._" Needless to say, I glared at the air again.

In a few seconds the glare shifted from one of malice to one of pure unashamed confusion as I beheld not the tracks and a train that suddenly stopped miraculously saving my life, or even a hospital bed or gurney with my mangled body sitting on it, _because the laws of physics dictated nay, demanded that it be mangled after that_.

Instead what I saw was a white hallway with odd-looking doors on either side stretching for, well, I actually couldn't say although infinity wouldn't have been a bad guess at the time.

"_No injuries either…_" I noted yet stranger still was that my suit was all messed up and my shirt had a few blood stains here and there, not to mention my phone, which I still had on me was completely shattered.

It took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to figure out what happened considering the circumstances, but when I did, I was so shell-shocked that I involuntarily voiced the thought aloud.

"I'm dead."

"What gave it away?" A _Scottish?_ voice said drily, and I flinched, looking around like a complete idiot to find the person who had spoken only for the hallway to _contract_ for a lack of a better word and a desk to appear in front of me with a man sitting behind it.

The man was almost the exact opposite of what I expected god to look like, he did have a beard for what it was worth, but it was ginger, scraggly and overall decidedly un-majestic, on top of that he was rather lanky and looked like the slightest gust of wind would tip him over, not to mention he wasn't wearing flowing white robes, but rather a green suit that would've been right at home in the Dick Tracy movie. And he was leaning on a cane that had what looked like an _eyeball_ on the top.

I blinked once and when what I was seeing didn't go away I did it three more times until I finally accepted what my brain was vehemently telling me was a reality, and taking a deep breath managed to speak, "I didn't expect to see you here of all places Lord Sheogorath."

He looked as surprised for a moment before he smiled, _it wasn't a nice smile_.

"You're a very polite young man ya' know? A marked difference from what I usually get here, then again I don't get anyone here..." He responded excitedly and I felt my left eye twitch at the answer that revealed no information.

His smile widened at that and he gave me a look that said _if you want to know, ask_.

"Where am I?" I managed to ground out and the Daedric Prince let out a hearty chuckle.

"You're somewhere, or I guess in this case nowhere would be a more fitting description." He answered with all the confidence of a sage who had found the gospel of truth and I felt the twitch recede in favor of a mild headache.

"So I am, in fact dead, then?" I stressed.

"Yup!" Sheogorath, _and I still couldn't believe this was happening,_ nodded enthusiastically, and I felt the twitch returning with a vengeance, "You, my friend are pining for the fjords and are now in effect an ex-human."

A snort escaped my lips, "Didn't know Daedric Princes enjoyed the classics."

He shrugged easily, "We all have _hobbies_," when he said the last word his eyes fixed on me and for a moment, I felt like a gazelle that a wolf had just spotted.

"So that means…" I began only to be cut off.

"Why yes it does, I'm sending ye off ta jolly old Skyrim! Todd Howard will have done it again and all that." He exclaimed with a large evil grin plastered on his face

"Alright," I said with a shrug hoping that this strategy to dissuade him from sending me to fight those fire breathing hell-beasts would work.

He blinked owlishly for a moment before an expression of befuddlement exaggerated to such cartoonish proportions that I couldn't truly describe it in all of its insanity overtook his features.

"What the hell do ye mean alright?!"

I shrugged carelessly, "I mean, I'm a pretty big fan of the games, hell I recognized your appearance from Daggerfall so even if you send me there as the Dragonborn, I'd say my chances of survival are pretty good."

"Hmm…" He muttered as he rubbed his chin in thought, "I see, and I assume that you're also well versed in the lore?"

I nodded cautiously, _although I have no idea what that whole Great War thing was all about, something about the Elf-Nazis rebelling because of Talos Worship…_

"Great War it is then!" He said brightly as I promptly opened my mouth to curse him, his mother (_Padome, or maybe Jyggalag?_) and his stupid fucking eyeball-cane, or I would've had one of the doors not suddenly opened and sucked me in with all of the force of a black hole.

* * *

Morndas, Last Seed 4th Era; Outskirts of Bruma

Labienus let out a small sigh of contentment as he adjusted his spear to be able to better lean on the wall, due to the cool night air that drifted down from the nearby Jerall Mountains said sigh rapidly coalesced into a wispy smoke that slowly drifted away much like Labienus' thoughts.

_"That's one of the many good things about these contracts,"_ Labienus thought with a small smile, "_they leave a man alone with his thoughts, they pay well and more often than not they're safe."_

And given that the job was so simple one would think there wouldn't be much to think about, he wasn't exactly guarding some ancient treasure form a group of dastardly brigands or even a caravan with valuable merchandise traveling across goblin-infested forests. But rather the small, _actually quite large_, castle of a Noblewoman who had gone there to avoid giving birth in the currently plague-ridden Imperial City.

The plague wasn't something that a simple potion couldn't solve, but for babies and small children it often wasn't enough, so taking the precaution was sensible, _that was the official reason at any rate_.

"_Having an official reason is necessary when Daedra are involved,_" Labienus thought with a frown while rubbing his gloved hands together to preserve his warmth.

Nonus, one of the Agrippa household guards who had accompanied Labienus and the Lady on their journey had taken him into confidence as to the real reason why they were leaving the City, apparently the Lady Agrippa had suffered a series of miscarriages that no Mages, Healers or Priests could find the cause of and her husband was displeased with her failure to birth an heir.

So, in confidence, she left for Bruma to meet with a fellow Noblewoman, _who was a closet Daedra Worshipper_, to pray to the said deity and prevent the fifth miscarriage. Which Daedric Prince it actually was Nonus didn't know, but Labienus himself prayed that it wasn't Molag Bal or divines forbid Mehrunes Dagon, _all the gold in Summerset wouldn't be enough for me to do this job in that case…_

It was while lost in his musings, that he heard the rustling of a few nearby bushes. A rookie might have been scared by this, but Labienus had been in the guild most of his life and before then he had served in the Legions with distinction so instead of being scared he was simply put on alert, he did a few quick stretches and he heard some of his joints give a satisfying pop as he slowly walked towards the sound of the disturbance in such a way that he didn't make a sound, keeping his spear at the ready all the while.

It would've been extremely difficult to see the animal let alone the tracks in the dark, but the full moon helped with that somewhat and what he saw confused him for the briefest of seconds, _too big to be an animal, bipedal and not khajit_…

His eyes widened in alarm as he barely ducked under a blow that would've otherwise cleaved his head right from his shoulders, he pivoted on the ground with his knee using his spear to assist in his balance and lobbed a chunk of mud at the newly revealed werewolf's face.

The beast let out a howl of pure rage as it lunged at him with even more vigor than before, Labienus angled his pauldron to prevent the creature's claw from tearing into his more vulnerable gambeson and rolled away with all the speed he could muster.

He kept going with this tactic of dodging whenever he could and angling the sturdier pieces of his armor when the former proved impossible, categorically refusing to be baited into striking, since the spear would at most cripple one of the creature's limbs and leave him completely defenseless unless he stabbed it in the head and given the werewolf's supernatural reflexes that wasn't something he was confident in doing.

His tactic worked as after a few mind-numbingly terrifying minutes a shrill whistle alerted him to the fact that his scuffle had finally gotten the attention of the Household Guards, a group of which charged out with loaded crossbows and fired bolt after bolt at the beast who let out a howl of rage.

Labienus smirked for the briefest moments before letting out a blood-curdling battle cry and stabbing the beast with a strike that had all of his weight placed behind it cleaving through the creature's stomach.

The werewolf let out another how, but this time it sounded like a pained gurgle due to the blood it was forced to cough up, _even still its fight or flight response has been triggered and since it was surrounded only the former would be possible_.

A conclusion it must've reached as well as it brought one of its claws in a broad swipe, knocking Labienus' helmet off his head and leaving a nasty gash right below his right eye and through his forehead.

The mercenary grunted in pain, but held firm, planting the spear on the ground and assuming a stance that would make it easier to shove that son of a bitch even deeper in the werewolf's guts. The titular beats let out a shriek of pain, the last noise it would make as its throat was slashed open by Labienus' dagger.

He wrenched the spear out of its corpse waving off the guards who came to see to his health and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a red liquid, involuntarily making a face that indicated disgust he downed the foul-tasting liquid in one gulp, his wound closing up as quickly as it was inflicted.

Still panting with exertion, he reached up to pat it and while closed it still stung and his hair was filled with dried blood.

"It just had to be Hircine didn't it?" He heard Nonus mutter lowly and gave a grunt to indicate he agreed with the sentiment but focused on taking a rag from one of his many pouches to wipe said blood.

It was during this task that he heard it, a bell, but not just any bell, rather the one that belonged to the small chapel of Arkay that was built next to the house it rang once and it seemed to Labienus that all of the Agrippa men tensed, said tension disappeared by the second ring.

"A boy then seems like it wasn't in vain." A guard muttered with an accent that indicated he hailed from High Rock. Labienus would've agreed outwardly, but he was too tired for even a grunt, barely managing to trudge towards and lean on a tree so he wouldn't collapse on the cold ground.

* * *

The very first words that left my new mouth were "_Fucking lunatic, Wes Johnson-ass Aiden Gillen looking inbred deranged motherfucker!_", or they would've been had the words not turned into: "Googh Ga!" as soon as they left my mouth.

Shit. _Ooh Shit_.

I'm a baby, Sheogorath you absolute piece of shit!

I was distracted from my hatred of the Daedric Prince by the gigantic yet soft hands that picked me up, tenderly curled around me and lifted me closer to a torch. Having a baby's eyes and seemingly a baby's mind I was not very appreciative of the harsh light harassing my eyes and dull heat assailing my skin, so I did what any baby would do under the circumstances, _I cried_.

"A good set of lungs it seems." An excited yet somehow dry sounding voice emanated from the middle-aged dunmer woman who was carrying me, _the midwife maybe_?

"It would seem so Vivea." A tired yet distinctly relived female voice sounded from behind her.

The dark elf woman, now identified as Vevea set me down on a soft surface and promptly began to feel me up, presumably poking and prodding to see if I had any defects that is, _not that I wouldn't be averse to the other connotation, but you know, baby_.

After a few more moments of this, the woman handed me towards what I presumed to be my mother, going by the tone of her skin she was either an Imperial or Redguard whose father had been a Nord or Breton. She had brownish skin and long raven hair that cascaded down her shoulders, coupled with chestnut eyes and a sharp nose that made her look quite dignified even after the ordeal she had just presumably gone through.

"Hello Sweetheart," She cooed and rocked me gently and I figured I may as well gurgle happily, no reason to have my new guardians dislike me for being an asshole before I could even talk and all that jazz.

This whole process gave me time to organize my thoughts, the good news is I'm not a Sload or in Akavir and I have loads of time to plan my next moves.

Bad news, I don't know who I am or if I even existed in canon, the great war will presumably be in a few years and most of the time, I could use to prepare I'll be a toddler.

The possibly worse news is I could be the Dragonborn, but I have no indication of that right now and I'd rather not think about it, to be honest.

_Conclusion?_ My chances of survival range from great to terrible and considering who brought me here I'll have to go with the latter, but I need more information before I can specify.

"What are you naming him Aurelia?" The Dunmer woman's voice jolted me back to reality, as my mother stopped rocking me and I felt her straighten slightly.

"Marcus," she said fondly, "Marcus Agrippa." _Like that Agrippa_, I thought with a raised eyebrow, even though I don't think I had eyebrows.

Vivea smiled fondly, but her eyes gained a mischievous glint. "And no shout-out to the woman who made it all possible, dear me I'm devastated." She said exaggeratedly.

My new mother, Aurelia glared, but there was no heat. "Fine, Marcus Vivecius Agrippa, happy?"

"Very," Vivea said drily.


	2. Chapter I

Ab Initio

Middas, Sun's Dawn, Year 159 4th Era; Imperial City

I yawned and lazily stretched my legs out when I reached the beginning of the fourth chapter of the book I was currently reading, The Book of Daedra if you were wondering, which unlike the in-game version whose total sum of text and therefore knowledge could've easily been contained on a small pamphlet this one was a huge-ass tome that easily matched if not surpassed one of the thicker volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.

Understandable, as it technically _was_ an encyclopedia about anything and everything Daedric, but it's writing style was dryer than the deserts of Hammerfell something I wouldn't have thought possible considering what the writer, _whoever it was_, had to work with. I mean, the cosmology of Elder Scrolls aka. Michael Kirkbride's psilocybin induced ramblings could most accurately be described as the lovechild of Greek Mythology and Lovecraftian Horror, how the hell could you make that boring you ask?

Apparently like this, "_The scamp's foraging habits are most unlike that of any creature who through Kynareth's benevolence has propagated itself on Nirn, given their well-known stench…_" I groaned outwardly, the thing read like a goddamn script for a bad nature documentary crossed with religious texts and thinly veiled opinions, which made me assume that the person who wrote it was, in fact, a Dunmer as he ascribes the more destructive proclivities of certain princes as being in their nature and therefore all the mayhem they cause as not truly being their fault.

"_Still…_" I thought as I gazed up at the dragon statue Martin Septim had left behind after his calamitous duel with the Daedric Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon. A statue which dwarfed the Cristo Redentor in Brazil by a wide margin and indicated that the fight was far, far more destructive than had been depicted in Oblivion, "_it seems like the information might come in handy with what I'll have to deal with._"

I started reading such boring tomes in favor of the more exciting fictional stories like Chance's Folly or A Game at Dinner with a vigor born not purely out of lust for knowledge like had been the case back on earth, but also from a very real spike of fear that came from a realization that I had while still in the crib and one that had quite prudently refused to go away after six years of life. I live in a world of gods and monsters, to the former I was an inconsequential ant and plaything (_thank you Sheogorath!_) and to the latter I was just meat, so if I had to read about Scamps' nutritional habits and the varying weeds that grow in Oblivion to give me the slightest edge in the chances of my survival I would.

And with that thought, I returned to my book with renewed energy, or I would've had a shadow not suddenly been cast from above making it difficult to make out the tightly packed letters. The shadow wasn't large enough to be an adult, so I doubted I was about to hear a "_Halt citizen, you've violated the law!_" for sitting on a statue of Stendarr where I technically shouldn't be sitting and the only children who would approach me while I was reading…

"Cut off one head…" I began leadingly

"And another two grow back." My compatriot answered with a small smirk, I turned to see who precisely it was, but her raspy voice had already given her species away, Argonian.

I briefly embraced El-Lurasha, an Argonian girl with purplish scales I had met during one of my many walks on the Imperial City docks. _When she tried to steal my sweetroll_.

"Hail Hydra," we both whispered in unison and she quickly handed me a sealed envelope once we broke off the embrace, an envelope whose contents I clearly recognized given its seal, the latest issue of the _Black Horse Courier_ a "newspaper" that was surprisingly still up and running ever since the Oblivion Crisis, it was no New York Times or Wall Street Journal but it was enough to keep abreast of the politics and general goings-on in the Empire. _Not to mention my early warning system about when the war would start_.

I tossed her a Silver Septim, much more than what the paper was worth, for her trouble, and yes in this world there were Silver and Copper Septims as well, each worth half of each other i.e. two silvers were one gold and two coppers were one silver, so it wasn't that difficult to calculate with.

She smiled shyly and almost as soon as she caught the coin it disappeared down her sleeve, a useful skill considering her occupation if one could even call pickpocketing an occupation. I had taken it upon myself to get to know some of the street urchins living in the Imperial City and had already become quite popular with them since I offered free healing albeit only for small bruises and scrapes since I only managed to teach myself the basic spell and provided good coin for a few odd-jobs like bringing me the paper every morning and the latest gossip, _truly everyone except the Thieves Guild underestimates how useful and more importantly how loyal they can be_.

_Speaking of which… _"What's the news L-L?" I asked conversationally.

She snorted, "Isn't that what you have that for?" she retorted pointing at my paper.

"I prefer to hear it from your beautiful lips," I shot back with the most earnest look I could muster, a corny compliment sure, but I was dealing with a little kid here not a seasoned veteran of the dating scene and if her mild blush (_was that even possible with her literally being coldblooded?_) was any indication it worked.

She coughed as an excuse for her momentary silence, "Lord Tamrith just arrived from High Rock and he snubbed Legate Vici in favor of visiting Legate Tullius."

I furrowed my brows, "Tamrith, Tamrith… That's the one from Rivenspire, right?" _And if the Legate is the one, I'm thinking of…_

"Yup!" She nodded back enthusiastically the earlier embarrassment forgotten, "High Rock tourists are the best, they always have coin purses instead of pockets like the ones from Hammerfell."

I chuckled heartily, "And in the Arena?"

She thought for a moment, "Yoren from the Red Team is apparently back on Skooma," she said, the scales on her forehead crinkling as if she had been trying to get the name right, understandable, she probably had the money to get in, but not enough to risk losing it gambling so she probably didn't keep up much with the matches.

"I'll be sure not to bet on him during the next matches then."

"That would be smart," she replied smugly and somehow without a hint of smugness, I just sighed quietly.

"Anything else?"

She looked down at her feet, I just raised my eyebrow.

"I'm having trouble with these letters…"

I lowered my eyebrow and sighed, closing my book and using the newspaper, _more like a small pamphlet_, as a bookmark.

"Show me," I said as she handed me a large piece of paper with different letters, some vocabulary and even drawings to go with them that I had scribbled on it when I was teaching her how to read. I offered it to all of the street urchins who were reasonably loyal, and she was one of the few who took me up on it. _I needed spies who could send letters after all, and this just made them even more loyal._

She did as I asked and over the next fifteen minutes, we went over a few consonants that she was having trouble with due to her Argonian physiology and some fairly common spelling mistakes, but overall, she was a quick learner. Not a blooming novelist by any stretch of the words, but she should be at the Tamrielic equivalent of a middle school level if she kept it up.

"Hey, didn't you say you were going to be learning sword fighting?"

Her seemingly innocent question made me choke on air, "I'm gonna be so late he's going to kill me!"

She laughed harder than I'd ever seen her laugh before.

"I said that out loud didn't I?"

She kept laughing. _I have to stop doing that_. I gave her an annoyed grunt before I raced back to my family home as fast as my seven-year-old legs could carry me, which is to say, not very fast at all.

* * *

  
Teldryn Sero couldn't ordinarily be described as a patient man, but for the amount of gold they were paying him to basically do nothing at all, he'd be as patient as the most pious priest of Stendarr on Tamriel. He gazed out the window briefly and though one wouldn't have known it by looking at him due to the goggles and mask that covered the entirety of his face, his eyes narrowed in annoyance, "_Doesn't mean I have to like it, though._"

A few hurried footsteps echoed out from the hallway of the rather expansive imperial villa he was currently working in, he smirked slightly. "_Speak or I suppose, think of the Daedra and he shall appear._"

He rolled his shoulders, and both gave a satisfying pop, in one smooth motion he drew one of the practice swords that he had bought specifically for this particular long-term contract and pointed it straight at the entrance of the door.

Said door quickly opened to reveal a small half-Breton, half-Imperial boy wearing a grey cotton shirt and dark leather pants and boots, Teldryn was at the very least relieved that the kid hadn't shown up to the training wearing fancy clothes, but instead of voicing the thought he gave a nearly contemptuous grunt both at the fact that the kid was late and that he had almost run straight into a room and perhaps more importantly, the edge of a sword that would've killed him had it been real.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he drawled looking apologetic, but his voice indicated otherwise, "I got lost on the road of life."

The excuse and its delivery were so absurd that a snort involuntarily escaped his lips, he hoped he still looked intimidating enough and going by the somewhat worried glances that the kid was shooting him, he did, however, that might have had more to do with the fact that he was still holding the practice sword at his throat than his bearing.

"And…?" He prompted leadingly; the kid furrowed his brows in thought.

"I should've been quieter and taken a peek before entering the room." He said hesitantly.

Teldryn grunted in acknowledgement, "At least you're not completely braindead," he expected a reaction of indignation from the kid (_to be fair his employers said he was only seven_), but when he got nothing except a raised eyebrow he moved on, "listen, try to make sure you're punctual next time."

The kid nodded seriously and Teldryn sighed, _I'm really not a good teacher_, "Listen kid, I'm going to be honest with you, I'm not much of a teacher so I don't know why your parents would pick me of all people, I'll do my best, just don't expect me to turn you into the next Gaiden Shinji."

The kid laughed, it wasn't like the laughter of other children filled with innocent joy, but rather one of an adult filled with mirth, "Don't worry, anything you can teach me beyond '_stick'em with the pointy end_' will still be an improvement."

Teldryn chuckled briefly as well, "Oh I can do that much at least." He then turned and walked towards the balcony, the kid confusedly following after him like a lost puppy. Abruptly he turned back around and tossed him one of the training swords and assumed a fighting position, to his credit the kid caught it but it thunked on the floor anyway as he was unprepared for the weight. Teldryn's respect rose slightly when the kid didn't complain and struggled to fully lift it with one hand mimicking his stance all the while.

He smiled slightly, a gesture of appreciation that was lost on the boy, "Now, do your best to hit me and remember this isn't the swordplay of the imperial legions, breton knights or orcish berserkers, you have to avoid overcommitting at all costs as Dunmer swordsmen don't use shields so there's no margin for error."

The imperial kid, _Marcus_, his brain supplied the name he had forgotten, charged at him with a battle cry, Teldryn didn't even have to block the poorly aimed strike instead just turning on his heel and allowing Marcus to run past him, he turned and glared this time approaching his teacher more carefully.

"_He's learning something at least,_" he thought as he lazily deflected every blow sent after him, "_just not fast enough,_" he finished the thought when the sword was knocked out of his charge's hand and he went to go get it.

"Let's try it again."

Marcus nodded seriously and tried to reassume the stance he had mimicked from Teldryn earlier, he clicked his tongue and shook his head in annoyance, "No, no, that stance is all wrong."

He approached him and pointed out the flaws, sometimes manually readjusting a few limbs, by the time everything was corrected Marcus looked like he was having difficulties simply staying still and keeping his balance, let alone trying to heft the especially heavy training sword Teldryn had provided.

"The perfectly executed Dunmer Spellsword stance is like a venerable old tree…" Teldryn began and his charge blinked owlishly at the odd analogy but was paying rapt attention either way, "and what would be the most important part of such a tree?"

Marcus furrowed his brows in thought, but before he could come to a conclusion Teldryn kicked his feet out from under him. His charge very understandably glared venom at him and Teldryn let said glare wash over him like water off the back of a duck, "We begin with roots." He was beginning to regret wearing a mask constantly, the smirk he was sending his student right now would've infuriated him even more, had he been able to see it. 


	3. Chapter II

Deus De Mammae Et Vino

Morndas; Hearthfire, Year 167 4E; Agrippa Vineyard (Outskirts of Cheydinhal)  
"It wouldn't kill you to knock occasionally," her godson intoned impassively not even deigning to look up from the documents he was currently working on.

"It wouldn't," Vivea conceded airily, "but where would the fun in that be?" Marcus gave a hum of what could've been approval but was far more likely just acknowledgment that he had heard her, even still she chose to understand it as the former.

As their little impromptu conversation lapsed into silence, she took a moment to observe the boy, _or young man would now be a more apt description_, whom she'd at least partly helped to bring into the world. The last time she had seen him was eight years ago when he'd been but a seven-year-old child and now she would freely admit that as a fifteen-year-old adolescent he looked every part the respectable scion of a noble house. He possessed sharp, angled features and characteristic of the northern Imperial Nobility these were framed by a head of close-cropped dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

Given that Aurelia was responsible for this particular part of his education Vivea didn't find it at all surprising that his posture was likewise immaculate, _though his grooming is a tad excessive_, she thought with a barely perceptible frown. It was true, his nails were trimmed to such perfection that had his hands not possessed any callouses they could've passed for those of an Altmer noblewoman, from looking at his stubble one would think he shaved using Mehrunes Razor and she'd be surprised if he hadn't bathed recently given the faint smell of lavender that clung to him.

"_Still,_" she mused, "_he is not unattractive."_ That much was readily evident, the muscles gained from what Aurelia called a near-religious dedication in learning the sword were visible under the odd yet elegant style of robes he was using, a form of fashion that he'd coined and that more minor nobles in the Empire were copying.

Her reverie was broken when her godson took a pot of wax from his desk and utilized a basic destruction spell to heat it, pouring some of the contents out over the envelope and pressing at the hot wax with his golden signet ring, only then did he deign to cast those same blue eyes filled with more intelligence than Marcus otherwise cared to show on her.

"So, tell me Vivea, what brings you to my humble solar?" He asked impassively, though the steepling of his fingers and his slight leaning forward gave away that he already knew or at the very least had some inkling to the answer.

Vivea snorted, "Can't a godmother visit with her beloved godson once in a while?"

Marcus didn't even deign to answer, merely narrowing his eyes at the lackluster evasion of his question, eventually, she stated the actual reason for her visit.

"Your mother spoke of your desire to learn magic."

A quick upturn of the lips was what he gave her in response, "She speaks truly, though as I'm sure you know she refused to allow me to attend the College of Winterhold."

Vivea raised an immaculate eyebrow and the red eyes for which her race was so well known narrowed, "Of course she did, the college at the ass-end of Tamriel? Why on Mundus would you want to go there of all places?"

"On the ass-end it may be, but now that the Mages Guild is defunct it is probably the most respectable institution with the largest collection of books and teachers on diverse subjects that one can attend," he frowned slightly, his disappointment at not being able to attend the College of Winterhold clearly shining through in his defense of his choice.

Vivea frowned as well, "Your mother only wants what's best for you."

Marcus barked out a chuckle at that, "Yes, and I'm sure the fact that I now handle the accounting of our vineyards has absolutely nothing to do with her decision."

Vivea wanted to say that it didn't but she stopped short. _It may be that it does have something to do with that._ Aurelia had spoken of his ingenious Double Bookkeeping method and the Agrippa Vineyards had been turning a profit for the first time since Marcus' grandfather was running things, partly thanks to his skill at accounting and partly thanks to that new kind of drink he'd invented, _hippocras or something like that?_

"Still, mother did always insist that private instructors were better, I'm guessing that's why you're here?" He asked jovially, though the stare he was giving her conveyed otherwise, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"I am," she answered simply and was disappointed and relieved at the same time when she realized the reason for his obstinance, _he thinks Aurelia sent me here to spy on him._

The assumption wasn't born out of nothing, the relationship between mother and son had never been the most stable one, Marcus enjoyed spending time with street rats, Mercenaries, Arena fighters and other sorts of people that no respectable noble scion should ever find themselves in the company of and his interests lied more towards the less practical pursuits of nobility like strategy and stewardship rather than the court intrigue Aurelia busied herself with. _Still for things to have gotten this bad between the two…_

She tried to give voice to her thoughts, but Marcus spoke before she could, "Very well then, teach me." He asked earnestly and pushed all of the documents he was working on previously to the other side of his desk, taking out a blank journal and picking up his discarded quill, presumably to take notes.

Vivea blinked slowly at the sequitur Marcus had used to abruptly end the awkward conversation, but she decided to just go with it. "How much do you know about magic?"

"That's a rather broad question." He answered without skipping a beat, and Vivea sighed.

"It is, but I need an idea of what I'm working with."

Marcus furrowed his brows in thought and began speaking, "Very well, Magic has divided into eight schools Destruction, Alteration, Mysticism, Illusion, Enchanting, Thaumaturgy, Alteration, Conjuration, and Restoration. The names are very descriptive and the only ones that might require further elaboration are Mysticism and Thaumaturgy, there is a debate whether the former is merely a subclass of Alteration, but I personally believe it to be a type on its own since it combines principals of Alteration and Illusion to allow the user to change the world in order to experience it in a different way. Thaumaturgy merely describes the crafting of magical staves and other such artifacts that cannot be made on an Arcane Enchanter. All magic requires Magicka to use, Magicka comes from Aethereus and flows to Nirn through the stars which are holes that the Magna-Ge punched through Oblivion, spells are nothing more than us manipulating the '_reality_' Magnus designed for Mundus by drawing on the energy of Aetherius. I am adept at destruction magic given my education by a Dunmer Spellsword and I know the basics of Restoration through self-study, I would ideally like to master Alteration and become adept at Conjuration, need I go on?"

"You…" Vivea paused to find the words, her jaw wasn't slack from astonishment, but it was close enough, "you're much smarter than anyone knows, aren't you?"

She had expected Marcus to give her a cocky smirk, but instead, all she got was a serious nod, she swallowed thickly and said, "I think I'm going to enjoy teaching you."

He smiled at her then, a small one but a genuine one that reminded her of the few times she had attended one of his birthday parties and brought him gifts, usually some Knick-Knacks from Morrowind or books and he'd always gave her the very same smile.

"And if you're half the mage you always claim to be, I think I'll enjoy learning from you."

She snorted, "Brat, alright we'll start with the simpler thing you want to learn. Alteration more than any other kind of magic is fundamentally altering the fabric of reality, meaning that to use it you need to have a more profound understanding of how reality works, why it works like this and how Magicka plays a role…"

* * *

"So, you're telling me, that to use Conjuration you have to sign a pact with a Daedric Prince?" I asked incredulously.

She snorted condescendingly, "Yes, what did you assume, that you could just summon Atronachs willy-nilly after learning a specific spell?"

_Yes, of course, I did_. "No, of course not, but I figured you could get them from an unclaimed plane of Oblivion or something," I said with my arms crossed defensively.

Vivea paused and looked like she wanted to laugh, but as I started to glare, her expression sobered frighteningly quick, "Well, I mean I guess that's sort of correct," she muttered while rubbing her chin in thought, "but that's only the case for familiars and seeing what your familiar is… I doubt that's the only summon you'll want at your beck and call."

_A Parrot, my familiar was a ghost Parrot._

"Alright," I muttered with a put-upon sigh, "which Daedra do you have as your contractor?"

She smirked and cast a conjuration spell, an armored Dremora appearing where her spell landed, ordinarily it wouldn't have given much away, to my knowledge there were a total of six Princes who used Dremora as their servants, but to anyone who played _Elder Scrolls: Redguard_ the neon green skin it possessed gave it away immediately.

"Clavicus Vile!" I exclaimed incredulously and she gave me a proud nod, "Holy shit, you're dumber than I thought."

Her expression darkened instantly, "What was that?" She asked in an eerily quiet voice that promised I would have to fight that Dremora if I didn't explain myself quickly.

"I mean you made a contract with the Prince who perfected the art of screwing people over." I deadpanned.

She broke out into genuine guffaws at that, "I mean, you're correct in a sense," she began, "but keep in mind all Daedra are fickle, Clavicus at least holds himself to the letter of the agreement if not its spirit, whereas other Daedra will do as they please, not to mention Barbas keeps him in check."

I gave a grudging nod of agreement and we were both silent for a moment.

"So, which Prince will you choose? Keep in mind they always test you and their tests always have something to do with their domains."

I thought about it for a moment, "Can you make a contract with more than one Prince?"

She nodded hesitantly, "I've met several people who've done just that," she paused here as if internally debating whether she should tell me what I wanted to know, "yes, it's possible only if the two Princes in question don't have contradictory domains and get along well with each other, so, for example, you can't get a contract from Boethia and Molag Bal, but you could get contracts from both Azura and Hircine. Though just because it's possible doesn't mean you should do it, the price for failing a prince's test is never one paid willingly and more often than not it's your soul and getting two contracts only doubles the chances of that happening."

I nodded absorbing this information.

"Sanguine then, I choose Sanguine" I replied with full confidence, she just sized me up quietly.

"Not the worst idea I'll admit, however…"

"However, what?" I asked

"He'll probably ask you for a drinking contest, are you sure you can handle it?" She asked teasingly.

"I run a vineyard, I'm pretty sure I can manage." I shot back with a smirk.

We both glared at each other, a silent battle of wills before said glare rapidly gave way to laughter on both ends. _We've gotten closer since she started teaching me_, I thought with a fond smile.

"Alright, just don't say I didn't warn you when he turns your blood into wine." _And my flesh to bread_, I thought still smiling while she wrote down Sanguine's name using Oblivion's script in the middle of the ritual circle as well as a rough depiction of the Daedric Prince's symbol, a rose growing out of a goblet of wine and finally she had me bring her a bottle of our best vintage to offer him as a sacrifice.

I placed both my hands in the circle and channeled my Magicka in much the same way I would summon my familiar.

"Great Prince Sanguine, Lord of Debauchery, grant me this audience so that I may pledge my service!" I intoned grandly as Vivea had told me to do.

The characteristic dark purple portal to oblivion opened once again and coalesced to reveal a shirtless red goblin-looking thing with two prominent horns holding a silver goblet, he had plump rosy cheeks and flushed face that indicated he'd been drinking, _and maybe something else too,_ I thought as I noticed his very noticeable bulge and furious expression that made me think he was _this_ close to asking me for a breastplate stretcher or something equally as impossible for my test.

"Um, Lord Sanguine, thank you for taking the time to speak with me, I apologize if I disturbed you in an inopportune moment, but I was wondering what it would take to-" I broke the silence, but he cut me off when I started babbling.

"Yeah, yeah, no worries it happens occasionally," he waved off my apologies. _I like him better than Sheogorath already_.

"So, I'm guessing you asked me here so you can summon some of my Dremora?" He asked and I nodded respectfully.

"And some of my, _female_ Dremora?" He whispered faux conspiratorially with a sage nod and lecherous wink, while I chocked on air. _I didn't even know those existed!_

He laughed, presumably at my very shocked and avaricious reaction.

"Yes, Lord Sanguine, might I ask what my test is?"

He stroked his chin in thought, poured himself some of the Agrippa Vintage that Vivea had left as the offering and swished it around in his goblet before taking a sip and finally coming to his decision, "Get laid in the next ten minutes." He said with a boisterous smile.

I blinked once; _I like this guy._ "And if I fail?" I asked cautiously.

"Then you fail, it'll be entertaining to watch either way." He said with a shrug and began to drink the wine straight from the bottle, I was still staring at him like a cat who knew that his owner was about to make him take a bath, he just rolled his eyes, "Relax, I'm not going to take your soul if you fail, tell you what two-, no three more bottles of this as the penalty!"

I chuckled, "Of course my lord, I'll throw in two if I succeed anyway."

He smiled at me, "You know, I like you, so does that mean you accept?"

I very discreetly looked over to Vivea who was standing in a corner behind Sanguine, she had a confused look on her face before she realized what I was silently asking, she gave me a hesitant nod, and her features shifted to look slightly guilty. I merely nodded at Sanguine.

"Very well, your time starts _now_!"

In three hurried steps I was standing right in front of Vivea and I could hear Sanguine distantly grumbling about how he was so drunk of his ass he didn't notice I already had a way to win stashed in the room and how he really didn't need another dude messing around with his harem, but I didn't care, at that moment I only cared about the person standing in front of me.

I peered up at Vivea, she was slightly taller than me given her elven physiology, but not by much, I noticed a lump form in her throat which she quickly swallowed and masked behind a _forced_ pleasant smile.

"_There's no denying she's beautiful,_" I thought silently, some might find her ashen skin and red eyes off-putting, but to me, it only added to the exotic and overall mysterious look she already had going for her, her sharp features and large tracts of land were a bonus too.

I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile and took her right hand into mine, kissing it tenderly while her expression shifted into one of surprise.

"I know it's not ideal," I murmured_,_ "but thank you for being willing to go through this for me."

"Oh, no that's not it, it's just…" she began, but before she could finish, I shoved her against, the wall crashing my lips into hers.

* * *

"Oh, no that's not it, it's just…" she began to stammer out through her heated blush that went unnoticed due to her skin color, what she really wanted to say was something else entirely, something like _I wanted this three months ago, but I feel like I'm taking advantage of you_.

Marcus, never gave her the chance, shoving her roughly against the wall, crashing his lips into hers and grinding against her, the first thing she noticed wasn't the physiological difference in bodily temperature or even his rapidly stiffening cock as it ground against her thigh, but rather her godson's tongue seeking entrance into her mouth, an entrance which she allowed as their two tongues begun a duel for superiority, given her experience a duel that she won in short order, but she was surprised to see how skilled Marcus truly was, _at the very least it probably isn't his first time_, she thought with guilt that was rapidly disappearing as the whole experience went on.

It wasn't long before Marcus broke the kiss as his concentration shifted to unlace her robes, a task he was failing miserably at as all the blood had long since left his head, she smirked and shoved him away, working at the task herself, at first freeing her two moderately sized breasts and exposing them to the cool air, whether that was what made her nipples stiffen or the thought of her godson mounting her like a heifer mounts a filly she didn't wish to know.

Distantly she thought she could hear a wolf whistle emanating from the Daedric Prince and she blushed at the reminder that they technically had an audience. _Though from a being who probably sees things like this every hour_.

Marcus for his part was also rapidly discarding his clothing on the ground, progressively revealing more of the toned musculature that his unflattering robes hat merely hinted at before, he finally stopped and smirked when an eight-inch cock was revealed to her, proudly bobbing up and down when he'd removed his trousers, she could only stare at it dumbly.

He approached with new vigor, kissing the crook of her neck and progressively trailing down from there, she moaned when he reached her nipples and finally her nether lips, it was with the final moan that he roughly lifted one of her legs over his shoulder and without preamble thrust himself into her, eliciting a shriek of both surprise and pleasure.

He kept going at a steady pace, as he used his other hand to turn her face over to him, his deep blue eyes conveying one thing, _lust_ and she was sure it was mirrored in her red orbs, he kissed her tenderly once again and she could distinctly feel the goosebumps taking over her flesh as he began to speed up, she began to approach her release and she was sure it was the same for Marcus as well, her womanhood began to clench and unclench around him.

It was then that both of her godson's hands lunged at her throat roughly squeezing it and preventing her from breathing, she panicked initially, but soon realized that the steady waves of pleasure hadn't abated, in fact, they seemed to become more intense because of this. In what could have been a few seconds, but what felt to her like an eternity where the world became Marcus and her, him roughly thrusting up into her against the wall of a wine-cellar, she soon climaxed, her womanhood clenching tighter than she thought possible, her godson's seed filling her womb and the sharp intake of breath as his hands left her throat only added to the sensation, and then something she had never felt before.

A sensation of such pleasure she had never experienced before coursed through her body as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she passed out, she could hear distant sounds of clapping as she did.

**A/N**

**Hey guys as this last chapter might have clued you in this fic was originally posted on QQ, but th discussion there was kinda lackluster so I decided to bring it over here. Reviews sustain me and they're what makes me want to keep writing, so keep that in mind and please leave one if you're feeling generous.**


	4. Chapter III

Si Vis Pacem Para Bellum  
Loredas, Mid Year, Year 170 4E, The Arena, Imperial City

I gripped my bastard sword loosely with my right hand and gave it a useless yet nice-looking twirl, much to the approval of the crowd who had bet on the Blue Team winning and much to the disapproval of the three remaining combatants from the Yellow Team who glared pure venom at me, I just showed them what could be charitably described as a shit-eating grin.

Instantly one of them charged at me, a red-haired Nord woman whose build looked far too lanky to be lifting the longsword she was using, let alone swing it at me, I angled my sword downwards in order to prevent her from seeing what my reach was and bent my knees in preparation to either dodge or absorb the blow.

_Horrible footwork, overcommitted to strike, angry and extremely vulnerable to counterattack_, a voice that sounded remarkably like Teldryn's sounded out from the reaches of my mind as the woman swung her longsword in an ark which she thought would cleave my head in two.

And it would've had I not pivoted on my heel in the last second and smacked her helmet with the pommel of my blade, causing a loud clang to resound throughout the arena, only outmatched in volume by the cacophonous cheers of the crowd, as she fell to the floor I gave my bastard sword another twirl and without further ceremony stabbed her through the throat as a pool of dark red blood began to stain the sand under my feet, a dick move to kill a man or in this case lady when she's down I know, _but there's no way I was going to get_ _Arthur Dayne'ed_.

The cheering got even louder after that, understandable as this had been an extremely lopsided match so far, the other two members of my team had bit the bullet thanks to the orcish berserker who was now circling me with more caution than one of his famous blood rages would ordinarily allow, and the Breton Spellsword who had wasted all his Magicka healing said orc berserker was making himself as scarce as possible by trying and failing to blend into one of the four pillars, a near-impossible task seeing as the color of his light raiment did everything short of screaming: '_I'm over here kill me now!_'

I twisted my neck around in an odd way and it gave a satisfying pop, the berserker was still circling me, making a show of how he could swing his large Warhammer faster than the speed of thought, _with one hand_.

_Too fast to dodge and too difficult to block, your only option is… _Teldryn's voice returned from the back of my head as I smirked slightly and began to tug at my Magicka using Telekinesis to collect the ambient moisture and turn it into an oval-shaped drop of water, I then used Thermomancy, _essentially what these plebs called 'Destruction Magic'_, and froze said water into a very large, _and very pointy_, icicle. Finally, I lobbed it straight at the orc's exposed neck.

In the game such an attack would've probably taken a good chunk of his health down, _but this isn't a game_, I thought grimly as the icicle entirely pierced his neck and emerged covered in blood on the other side as painful gurgles resounded through the Arena and carried well given the odd hush that had fallen over the audience, I only realized later that it was due to the fact that I'd never actually used magic in any of my matches before, keeping it as a sort-of ace in the hole that I'd never felt the need to use said ace before now.

I looked over at the Breton and gave him my patented, '_I'll build a throne out of your bones and rip them out while you're still alive_'-stare and he dropped his blade and kowtowed, the sign for surrender in the Arena, which to my surprise was actually possible you just didn't get paid for the match and had half your pay for the next one deducted, _still better than dying though_.

The crowd cheered loudly and chanted the name, Spartacus, over and over again in much the same manner a Brazilian stadium would chant for their respective team. Spartacus being my _stage-name_ as the Arena was much like the Colosseum in Ancient Rome, it was socially acceptable for people from all walks of life to watch but very not fine for any upstanding citizen to participate and _I was nothing if not the most upstanding of citizens_, I thought with a chuckle as I raised my sword high up into the air with my right hand and let loose a torrent of flames with my left.

"Good People of the Imperial City, we have a winner! All hail the combatant from the Blue Team, Spartacus leave the Arena now and rest, you've earned it!" The booming voice of the announcer just barely managed to make itself heard over the throng of the crowd as I walked back towards my team's 'barracks' in the Arena.

Predictably both Teldryn and Roland, my team's manager, showed up there to greet me as I splashed some water from the _Mystical Healing Fountain_ over my face, I hadn't gotten hurt, but it was more tiring than I care to admit.

"Well fought," Telwyn complemented with a nod, _not one for artsy compliments that one_.

"Well, fought?!" Roland parroted sarcastically, "Spartacus beat three Gladiators without breaking a sweat, I'd say that was a tad better than 'well fought' Master Teldryn."

"True," Telwyn conceded with a nod and a small grin, "but we don't want him running around with delusions of grandeur now do we?"

"Me? Delusions of grandeur, perish the thought," I said with a look of mock offense, "So, how long do you think it'll be before I can fight the Grand Champion with one arm tied behind my back?"

Teldryn snorted and Roland smiled enthusiastically but said nothing, an odd yet not exactly awkward silence ensued, promptly broken by Roland's feigned cough, "At any rate Spartacus, here's your payment for the match," he said handing me a small pouch with what should be 500 Septims, but knowing Roland was probably 490 or thereabouts.

Teldryn looked over and handed me a much, much larger sack, "And here's your cut from those bets you had me place on you," a look of avariciousness crossed over Roland's face and as quickly as it came it disappeared.

I looked over at my former sword instructor and current 'Bronn', my face suddenly the perfect picture of seriousness, "Do you think that'll be enough?"

He shrugged, "I'm no expert on how much commissions cost in the legion, but for what you want I'd say a little over half your winnings would be enough."

I nodded digesting the information, Roland meanwhile blinked owlishly, "You're thinking of joining the legion?"

I nodded slowly, he looked distraught now, "But, _why_?" Then _I'm going to lose a lot of money if you do_, went unsaid.

"I think I could do some good there," I answered curtly instantly shutting down whatever arguments he had presumably marshaled on the fact that the average pay for anyone in the Legion was, not to put it too bluntly, _shit_.

He furrowed his brows, "You know only Nobles can buy officer commissions, don't you?"

I nodded with what I believe was the most infuriating smile my face has ever sported, "Oh, I know." I gave him a small wink before walking towards the changing room.

Tirdas, Sun's Dusk, Year 170 4E, Fortress Black Root

"Well, this place is…"

"Shit?" Marcus completed with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile as both of them beheld the crumbling stone monstrosity that was slowly becoming more visible through the fog.

Teldryn nodded slowly, but otherwise didn't respond as they spurred their destriers to continue on the dirt path towards the ruined fortress of Black Root, a Fortress which Marcus had purchased command of along with his newly minted rank of Commander and beautifully crafted leather armor to go with it from one of the more personable (_read: corrupt_) Generals that inhabited the Imperial City.

"_It didn't cost him much either,_" Teldryn thought with a small frown that went unnoticed due to his mask, "_but then again why would it?"_ The Fortress was located on one of the more remote parts of the West Weald, not remote enough to be unmanned mind you as it was on the border with Elsweyr, but certainly out of the way to the point where no merchants even approached the small farming villages dotted around it, meaning that neither the men nor the commanding officer could get rich of off bribes and had to make do with the lower salaries that Titus Mede I had instituted for the Legion, there was no chance of advancement or glory, so the General he had bribed was practically falling over himself for the chance to give someone the command of that damn ruin.

His eyes narrowed at the thought, Marcus could be a lot of things, eccentric was the word that immediately came to mind, he couldn't think of any other noble stupid or perhaps dutiful enough to leave their cushy vineyard and join the legion, let alone for such a mediocre task, but Teldryn Saro knew for a fact that Marcus could be accused of anything except incompetence, which begged the question…

"Why this fortress and why join the legion now?"

"Hmm?" Marcus asked as his head swiveled over to him, he had been gazing at his new post intently, so he might not have heard him.

"I asked why all of this?"

"You know it's always been my dream to join the legion," he began just a tad defensively, "it's why I convinced my mother to hire you after all." _Though you told her it was because 'a Noble should always be able to defend himself from his lessers,' if I remember correctly._

"Yes, but why now, and why this Fortress specifically?"

Marcus' eyes gained a glassy quality to them for a moment and he paused as if internally debating whether or not to share this information, "There's a war coming," he said quietly, so quietly in fact that it could barely be heard over the clopping of their horses' hooves, "In a year maybe two, the Thalmor will declare war against the Empire and they'll win."

"What makes you so sure?" Teldryn asked skeptically.

"Tell me, if you believed that there was a nation of heathens right across your border that worshipped a deity that took the most important thing from your entire species and you realized said nation was in no position to defend itself, what would you do?"

"I get that part," The Dunmer Spellsword answered with a grunt, "what I don't get is how you're so sure the Empire will lose, they have laughably more manpower than anything the Thalmor can bring to bear."

"True," Marcus conceded, "but numbers don't matter if you can't use them correctly, for starters Hammerfell is still in Civil War so most legionnaires from there will be more focused on other issues, High Rock is so disorganized the last accurate census was probably made before the Oblivion Crisis, truth be told the only provinces the Empire can rely on are Skyrim and Cyrodil, and even then how many officers do you think got promoted based on merit alone, by which I mean not paying for their ranks like I did?"

_Almost none _"Enlighten me."

"I can count them on one hand," Marcus answered with a grim expression.

"That only begs the further question," Marcus raised an immaculately trimmed eyebrow, "Why would you enlist if you believe you'll end up losing, especially in such a dangerous post?"

Marcus laughed a small laugh, "The Empire will lose, I'm playing to win."

Saro's eyebrows furrowed in thought, "What in Oblivion does that mean?"

"It means that War is just another word for chaos," Marcus began turning to him with a large smile plastered on his face, "and as a wise man once said _Chaos is a Ladder_ and I'm climbing that son of a bitch to the very top."

He would've asked what in Oblivion that meant, but after he finished speaking Marcus's white mare began to gallop towards their destination, kicking up mud from the badly maintained roads all the while.

Teldryn cursed under his breath and hurried after him.

When he finally arrived, he spotted Marcus, or he supposed Commander Agrippa as he should get used to calling him, now having a short conversation with a man wearing armor slightly less ostentatious than his own, _the Tribune then_.

He only managed to catch the tail-end of the conversation, but it was enough, "…yes, the men have been assembled in the courtyard for your inspection, commander."

"Thank you," Marcus gave him a curt yet polite nod and paused for a moment, "what's your name Tribune?"

"Mark Antony, sir!" The tribune answered and snapped to attention all the while. Teldryn could've sworn that Marcus chocked on air when he heard the name but decided it ultimately didn't matter.

"And how long have you been assigned at the fortress?"

"For two weeks, sir." He answered with a firm gaze. _A newbie then, won't be much help in learning the ins and outs of the men_.

"Thank you then, Tribune Antony, please have our horses seen to and point me to my chambers once I have finished speaking to the men."

The Tribune nodded seriously and saw to his task, bowing his head at the dismissal in all but name. _Though he is_ _disciplined and seems to have a good head on his shoulders, probably because he's only been here for two weeks._

Marcus dismounted and walked over to the courtyard, Teldryn followed suit, what they saw left him more unimpressed than the fortress itself, if such a thing was even possible. The garrison numbered around 500 at a glance, but was probably less, half of them didn't stand at attention and a few of those had gear that was incorrectly maintained.

Marcus surveyed them with the cold gaze of a parent who was just about to give his child the beating of his life for doing something unimaginably stupid, the glare he emitted caused a few more men to straighten up, but a few remained obstinate.

"I am Marcus Vivecius Agrippa, your new Commander!" He began with a booming voice that carried would've carried over well on a battlefield, let alone a mostly silent courtyard.

"From now on you will speak only when spoken to and the first and last word I expect to hear out of your ugly mugs will be sir, am I understood?"

"Sir, yes sir." The Legionnaires said, some less enthusiastically than others, people which Teldryn took note of.

"Bullshit, I can't hear you, sound off like you got a pair!"

"Sir, yes sir!" This time the response was if not more enthusiastic, then at least louder.

"If you Legionnaires serve in my Fortress, if you survive the additional training I have in store for you, you will be the most efficient garrison on the face of Tamriel, but until then you are maggots, you are the lowest form of life on Nirn, you are not even sentient fucking beings, you are nothing but undisciplined pieces of Argonian shit!"

He paused here to stare at the reactions of his men, some looked nervous, some looked cocky and fewer still looked amused.

He continued, "Because I am hard you will not like me, but the more you hate me the more you'll learn I am hard, but I'm also fair, there is no racial bigotry here, I do not look down on snow-fuckers, walking carpets, lizard people, knife ears, feudal cunts, sand swallowers or Imperials, here you are all equally worthless and my orders are to weed out any legionnaire who does not make the cut, do you understand maggots?"

"Sir, yes sir!" was the resounding response, Teldryn noticed Marcus was about to give a nod of approval, but in the quiet that descended on the courtyard the following words were heard by everyone, "_who does this brat think he is?_"

Marcus heard it too as the glare of approval rapidly shifted to become one of pure malice, "Who the fuck said that?!" He roared and when no one answered he approached some of the men, gazing intently at a young Breton man, young enough that he seemed to have difficulty growing a beard.

"Did you say that?" Marcus said quietly, with a voice that promised pain.

"I-I didn't, sir." The Commander's glare didn't soften in the slightest, but his voice did, "Do I make you nervous Quaestor?"

The Breton man nodded hastily, "Good," Marcus muttered slowly and deliberately placed a hand on the pommel of his sword.

"I said it, sir!" A large dark-skinned man, whose accent denoted he hailed from Skingrad said somewhat repentantly. _No discipline, but at least he doesn't let others take the fall for his shit_.  
Marcus walked up to him, "Name and rank soldier," he asked.

"Praefect Tancred, sir!"

"I admire your honesty Praefect," Marcus said with a grim frown, "Hell I like you; you can come over to my house and fuck my sister."

Before the Praefect or any other man for that matter could process the absurd statement, Marcus punched him so savage that Teldryn thought he could hear at least three of the man's ribs snap as he was sent sprawling to the ground.

He looked over at all the men, "Training starts at sunrise, if you're not in the courtyard by then I'll unscrew your head from your shoulders and shit down your neck, am I understood?!"

"Sir, yes, sir!" This time the answer was returned by all of the men with a mixture of nervousness and enthusiasm.

Teldryn merely chuckled lowly, "_It seems that Marcus might make a good commander after all._"

* * *

Fredas, Second Seed, Year 171 4E, Fortress Black Root

He was still not sure what to think of the Commander. He hated him for the episode in the courtyard, where the man or more accurately boy several years Tancred' younger had sent him sprawling on the ground, humiliating him in front of his comrades, for what was admittedly a poorly-timed comment, but throughout his training he found ways to choke it down like a Conjurer sending a lesser Daedra back to Oblivion, he forced his hatred down to the deepest pits of his stomach where it would only surface once he was going to sleep, not while it could prove troublesome during the day.

The method worked well enough; Tancred supposed.

He hated the Commander for many more things, too. The constant humiliation and beatings with the whip or the Commander's wooden sparring sword when you didn't march fast enough, or if you, Divines forgive you, had the bright idea to question your orders.

If you asked politely and in a timely fashion, both the Commander or Tribune Antony would be more than happy to provide an explanation, a timely fashion meaning before or after the order was carried out. But you never questioned the order when you were supposed to perform it.

And you may as well pray for Mehrunes Dagon's tender mercies if you became insubordinate or tried fighting back. Then you were tied to a post and whipped by your fellow Legionnaires until the Commander deemed you'd learned your lesson, as far as Tancred knew it was a unique punishment in the Imperial Legions which Tribune Antony justified by explaining that Commander Agrippa viewed such insubordination not as a crime to the Emperor or even the Divines themselves, but rather as a disgrace of the whole unit and therefore a disgrace that the same unit must purge themselves of.

However, Tancred had to grudgingly admit that the Commander was also fair to them like he had said in the beginning, some of his comrades even went as far as to say he was like the father many of them had never had.

Tancred snorted at the thought, "_I suppose a strict and arguably abusive father is still a father._"

But it was true that the Commander did care about their well-being, he made sure everyone was healthy, that everyone had access to clean water, three hot meals a day and he made sure that their equipment was up to standard, teaching them how to mend the holes in their uniforms and sharpen their blades themselves, _further evidence of the commander's distaste for specialized units and camp followers who took care of those kinds of things_.

The Commander also augmented the pay of every member of the garrison from his family's coffers, to the point where it was much better than what most legionnaires received and could be described as a respectable sum that was doled out promptly. In exchange for all that though one had to go through Oblivion's training, marching until you dropped carrying all your equipment including supplies to camp and heavy rocks, learning how to fight in formation and respond to the officers' whistle to change said formation in the heat of battle among other things that required unheard of amounts of discipline and coordination to pull off. A Legionnaire once asked the Commander why they marched so much and since he did it in a polite and timely manner, he got an answer.

"_The difference between a soldier and a farm boy is simple, both can swing a sword, but only one can follow orders and swing it after a grueling march._" In the Commander's mind this included being able to cook, clean and set up camp or how he called it a '_castra_' within a very small amount of time and without any specialized units to help them, it was covered in their training which involved chopping down trees and learning how to pitch large tents in under five minutes.

True to his word he made sure there was no bullying among the men when he said '_you're all equally worthless_' he meant it. Any officer who broke that particular rule had to spar one on one with the Commander's bodyguard a Dunmer Spellsword who occasionally shared stories with them about the different kinds of opponents he's faced in Morrowind, Skyrim and Cyrodil, some men initially thought a few of those stories were exaggerated, but when the very same ones returned from the yard their skin more black and blue than its natural hue and sometimes with nasty burns to show for their troubles they changed their tunes.

The food was good, mainly because the Commander taught them how to cook things that were tastier than potato stew and grilled leeks, and soon they could all make quite tasty meats and soups. The commander insisted on eating some kind of meat at least once every day, usually fish they caught from the nearby river or beef the townsfolk provided in exchange for the soldiers doing some menial tasks that the Commander deemed they could be spared for in exchange for food. His only real complaint with the food was that the Commander didn't let them drink, well he did, but the only wine he allowed them was so watered down it could hardly be called wine anymore.

"_The wine is there to purify your water, get drunk on your time off!_" Tancred resented the first part of the Commander's edict, but he followed the second religiously.

Perhaps most importantly the Commander listened when they had a complaint, most often it would be disregarded with a gruff statement of the solution's infeasibility or the necessity of the thing they were complaining about, but when the Commander deemed the complaint valid it would be resolved by the next week at the latest.

Tancred would admit that after all this training he felt stronger. Drinking less wine made him more alert, and all the forced marching formations, blacksmithing, building and overall more discipline that the Commander demanded had made them all better soldiers and instilled in them a pride for their unit that Tancred just _knew_ was unmatched in all the Empire, as he finally felt his consciousness giving way to deep and dreamless slumber he smiled at the thought that the Commander had managed to fulfill his most outlandish promise, they really were the best damn garrison on the face of Tamriel after all.


	5. Interlude

Nos Ad Radices Insipire  
Loredas, Frostfall, Year 171 4E, Fortress Black Root

"Commander Agrippa," Antony intoned while saluting in the odd manner he had been drilled in ever since the commander arrived at the Fortress, Marcus returned his official greeting with a shallow nod and a muttered, "At ease, Praetor."

Despite himself, Antony smiled, "Looks like even you can get carried away drinking, eh?" Marcus simply glared at him, though the usual bowel-liquifying effect that had was significantly diminished by his disheveled hair, bloodshot eyes, and perhaps most importantly the fact that he was glaring while chewing on one of those 'ham sandwiches' he habitually prepared himself for breakfast.

Antony wordlessly gestured to ask if he could take a seat, and the Commander agreed, albeit warily, whether in fear of the sharp noise that the chair scraping across the floor would doubtlessly make or Antony's actual reason for being here, the Praetor could not definitively say, but sure enough Agrippa did visibly wince because of the noise.

"A letter came from a courier today, top priority," Antony stated, all hints of levity having completely disappeared from his voice as he slid the letter whose seal denoted the fact that it came from General Lepidus, the Commander of all Legions in Cyrodil, and the second seal further indicated it as being of the utmost priority.

Before that moment Marc, would have thought that it would be impossible for a man to go from disheveled to disciplined in under a second, but as with a lot of things Marcus was making a habit of proving him wrong, his demeanor would shift again when he read the letter, from worried, to enraged before finally settling on what could only be described as childlike giddiness.

This rapid shift caused Antony to raise an eyebrow, "Any news I should know about?"

Marcus nodded, barely being able to keep a grin off his face, "It seems we're at war," he said levelly but scrutinized his second in command for his response.

_Wait._

_What?_

"What?" He managed to say aloud, thankfully Commander Agrippa managed to glean what he truly wanted to ask and answered accordingly.

"Oh yes," he nodded quite seriously, "the Thalmor gave our Emperor a list of Ultimatums, half of which would've had half the Empire in open revolt had he accepted without a fight, Titus Mede declined obviously and here we are now, fighting a war we can't win."

"Can't win?" Antony asked with a raised eyebrow, "What could indicate that?"

He tossed the letter over to him and pointed at a specific passage, Antony didn't even get to read it in its entirety before Marcus continued, "Look here, an army under Lord Naarfin already bypassed all of our fortifications on the West Weald and if I were him I'd currently be on the way to besieging Bravil, meanwhile _we_," by 'we' it was clear he meant the Empire as a whole and not the garrison, "haven't even properly raised all of our Manpower yet, not to mention another even larger army of around 120.000 under Lady Arannelya is currently on its way to Hammerfell, and if they manage to burn the Yokudan fleet which they probably will since the Redguards are currently in Civil War..." He trailed off here, but he didn't need to continue the outcome was clear enough.

Antony pursed his lips, "And our role in this whole impending disaster?"

"To link up with that oaf Bibulus and his troops in Skingrad and throw ourselves at elvish spears to slow them down until the Redguards can get their collective shit together," Marcus informed pleasantly sipping at his orange juice seemingly without a care in the world.

Antony took a moment to absorb all of this information, taking into account the likelihood of the Crowns and Forebears resolving their differences in the face of a common enemy, Bibulus' ability as a commander weighed against Lady Arannelya's, the amount and quality of men at the disposal of each side… Before coming to the inevitable conclusion that the Commander had reached after reading the missive, "We're completely and utterly fucked, aren't we?"

Marcus shook his head wordlessly, a grin threatening to break out over his normally stoic features, "No, no, no, you're equating us with the Empire, the Empire is fucked, but we have quite a few ways to get out of this relatively unscathed."

"I don't see how we can do that with while following orders," Antony stated with his arms crossed, Marcus just snorted.

"We can't," Agrippa shot back, "So we don't do that, after all…" He began faux conspiratorially, "you can't quite follow orders you haven't received." He finished before using one of those Destruction Spells he and Telwyn seemed so fond of to burn the missive to ashes.

Antony was not impressed, "Even if it wasn't a crime in the eyes Stendarr to willingly ignore orders, you realize the courier will know we received this, right?"

At this comment, Marcus stood up, not angrily not even in a slightly agitated manner, yet due to his Hangover it lacked the skillful and almost regal grace he normally protruded, but when he laid a firm grip on the Praetor's shoulder it filled him with more confidence than he'd ever outwardly admitted.

"Do you trust me to do what's best, for this garrison and more importantly for the Empire?" Marcus asked, his blue bloodshot eyes boring in Antony's not entirely sober brown orbs.

"Yes, I do." The answer escaped his lips before he could fully think about its implications, but upon further reflection, he found that he meant every word.

Marcus sat back down and released a breath Marc didn't know his commander had been holding, "Very well, let me worry about the courier, in the meantime, I need you to pay a visit to Bibulus."

"To explain that we won't be linking up?"

"Partly," Marcus conceded with a nod, "but mostly because I need all of the men he can spare if my plan is going to work, more specifically, I need a good amount of his cavalry and all of his reserves."

Antony's eyebrows shot up in astonishment, "You already have a plan to win this don't you?"

Agrippa looked sheepish, "Well, the beginnings of one at least, but yes."

"Just one problem," Antony began, "Why would Bibulus agree to just give you command of some of his forces, the man isn't a good commander, but he's not _that_ bad either."

"No, that he isn't," Marcus' eyes narrowed, "which is why you'll have to do the heavy lifting, well heavy might be an exaggeration," Marcus said while pointing at a chest sitting in the corner of the room.

Antony wisely took the gesture as an order to open it and when he did his jaw nearly hit the floor, in it was a perfectly polished ceremonial set of Imperial Armor along with several amulets and rings, but if one squinted hard enough one could make out a very faint green glow covering them all, when he turned back Marcus was only smiling.

"With those enchantments, I wouldn't be surprised if he gives you everything I want, oblivion, he might even throw in his mother if you ask nicely enough."

Antony guffawed.

* * *

Fredas, Sun's Dusk, Year 171 4E, West Weald

Tracking someone through the wilderness wasn't a job that Telwyn particularly enjoyed, but it was something he was good at and as his current employer was fond of saying, "_If you're good at something never do it for free_," he agreed with the sentiment, which is why he was charging double for having to trek through the West Weald, simultaneously avoiding the newly present Thalmor patrols and the occasional Imperial patrols that prowled around this area, _still it could be worse…_

He thought as he prepared to cast one of the handier Mysticism spells that Marcus had taught him in preparation for his role as his '_Muscle_', an odd yet apt euphemism the Agrippa scion used for the people who were entrusted all tasks that had to do with violence of the not strictly legal persuasion, as the purplish energy swirled around his left palm and traveled through to his eyes Telwyn had to fight a headache at the sheer brightness that overwhelmed him, the Detect Life spell was useful in a cave, fortress, dungeon or any of those other innumerable places that weren't crawling with living things, aka. places that weren't forests, but here it had the same effect as if his goggles had been tinted pink.

He took several deep breaths and gradually began to exclude certain things from the spell's purview, the first to go were the trees as the pink in his vision subsided leaving only their natural splendor as they were bathed in the moonlight of the rising Massur and waning Secunda.

The next things to go were the 'Life Signatures' of the squirrels, birds and other small animals, which eventually left the sole pinkish outline of a man whose position indicated he might have been sitting near a campfire, Telwyn smirked and crept closer to his target and sure enough the very same Imperial Courier who had visited Fortress Blackroot a week ago.

He pitied the poor cunt who had somehow managed to piss off Marcus without ever having met him, or maybe he was just an unwilling player and loser at the '_Game of Thrones_', but pity would do neither of them any good at this point, so instead of dwelling on his feelings he quietly cocked a captured Elvish arrow and loosed it with an incredible degree of precision so much so that it pierced his aorta and a gurgle was the only thing that echoed through the forest instead of a scream.

Telwyn got up and decided he may as well loot the man for coin and rations that would be useless to him, but very useful for Telwyn, the Dunmer had a letter to deliver to a Necromancer after all and he'd be surprised if his acolytes would be kind enough to feed for his troubles.

* * *

  
Middas, Evening Star, Year 171 4E, Bruma

Vivea picked up the letter with trembling hands once she noticed the seal of the small Mockingbird that indicated it was Marcus who had sent it, the man she hadn't seen for around two months since he'd briefly visited her as respite from that dreadful fort in Southern Cyrodil, _and wasn't that a meeting to remember_, she began to think as wanton and increasingly heated thoughts of the Daedra they had both summoned to participate in their last amorous sojourn filled her mind.

She quashed the line of thoughts her mind was pursuing; her lover might need her help after all or the other possibility that she didn't want to think about… He could be dead for all she knew still it would do no good to just staring at the wax seal, so she took a small steel dagger and opened the letter to peruse its contents.

_Dearest Vivea,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health, normally I'd say I pray for your health and safety, but under the circumstances, I'd say I need those things more than you do,_

She snorted, that dolt running off to join the army, she had to calm Aurelia down for nigh a week straight afterward and he never even apologized, _still, it did wonders for his physique and doing it in his armor…_ She shook her head again to continue reading.

_So instead I shall pray for something that my contractor might be willing to help with namely, to soon be reunited and alone with you and for our continued merriment and happiness even in these trying times. I cannot spare any particular details but know that all is well, and I do not intend to die anytime soon.  
I long to be together and alone with you, and though I've said it in the heat of the moment several times, I believe it is high time I put it to paper, I love you Vivea, with all of my heart._

_Sincerely,_

_Captain Marcus Vivecius Agrippa_

Her breath hitched in her throat when she read the last line as tears born from both happiness and worry inched down her cheeks, she lost count of the number of times she reread that letter that night.

* * *

Morndas, Morning Star, Year 172 4E, Imperial City Waterfront

_"Defcon 2," _The odd refrain Marcus had used when discussing possible events and their contingencies swirled around in her mind as she processed the two small words written on the piece of paper that the street urchin handed her a few seconds before.

To an outside observer this phrase would've meant nothing at all, but to El-Lurasha this meant that the Empire was at war with the Dominion and that she now had to carry out very specific instructions, she began by immediately looking through the boxes deposited in the small home her master had given her, the box of Agrippa wine bottles with a number 2 proudly stamped on the back was the one she cracked open only to find three sheets of outwardly blank pieces of paper.

She smirked and held one over a flame, close enough so that the instructions written using lemon juice would become visible yet far enough so that the paper wouldn't catch fire before she could finish copying down her instructions.

She grumbled several choice words about her master when she realized he had written said instructions in that mind-numbingly simple yet complicated cipher of his, simple in that it was very easy almost insultingly so once you knew how it was done yet complicated if you needed to figure it out and time-consuming to decode it either way.

Once she finished copying down the gibberish of letters and numbers from the three small pieces of paper, she set to work decoding them, but her instructions somehow managed to raise more questions than answers, while Marcus always liked to be specific so that none of his subordinates could claim ignorance as an excuse for failure her instructions basically boiled down to this: All Agents in Southern and Eastern Cyrodil are to be temporarily decommissioned for the duration of the War Keep an eye on a Nord member of the Blades named Tyr, inform me should he die or become otherwise incapacitated. Lie as low as possible while still completing your tasks If Leyawiin should be taken by the Thalmor deliver Letter #4 to Legate Tullius  
She frowned thoughtfully, these instructions only reinforced her perception that her master was secretly a seer or maybe he's somehow receiving help from the hist trees no matter how unlikely it might be for someone who wasn't an Argonian.

El-Lurasha resolved to ask him when he returned, but didn't hold out much hope she knew first hand how paranoid Marcus was and if there was anything she learned from him it was that knowledge is power, so she didn't hold out much hope that he'd willingly share all of his secrets of how he knew so many things he really shouldn't know, _still he might be willing to make a trade I did see a copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid the last time I was in his solar…_

A grin slowly spread over El-Lurasha's features. 


	6. Chapter IV

Chapter IV: De Bello Elsweyrio  
_Turdas, Sun's Dawn, Year 173 4E, Northern Elsweyr_ "We're moving far too slowly for my tastes," Antony commented. Hoping that any trace of his nervousness at trudging through enemy territory was buried deep inside by his military persona.

"That's what tends to happen when you're moving through enemy territory and have to wait for constant updates from the scouts," Marcus replied serenely as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. It very well must've been seeing as Teldryn grunted an agreement from his sizeable black destrier as well.

The brief conversion, if one could even call it that, lapsed into silence. The only sounds that reverberated through the increasingly arid woods of Elsweyr were those of their horses' hooves clopping on the shoddily paved roads and the sound of the infantry marching in unison. Sounds that Antony had heard so often that they were calming rather than menacing. However, still, the worry in the back of his mind wouldn't abate.

As if hearing his thoughts, Marcus turned to him, a bemused look on his face, "Spit it out, Mark, you look like someone just killed your best friend."

Antony started, "So does everyone else except for you and Teldryn."

"Yes, but when an Infantryman who's never seen real combat beyond a bunch of bandits gets worried, that's normal when the second in command looks about to piss himself… Well, people tend to get a little unnerved by that."

Mark sighed, "Listen, Bibulus may have given you his cavalry, but you realize if we go through with this plan of yours, we'll be fighting at a numerical disadvantage of three to one _at least_?"

"I am capable of counting," Marcus retorted drily, adding, "and if numbers decided fights mathematicians would rule the world."

"You're always avoiding the question," Antony returned somewhat heatedly Marcus only raised an eyebrow. "How you're planning to win this, there's no way we can fight them!"

"No, you've got it wrong, there's no way we can fight them _fairly_, so we won't be doing that."

"So, you've said, but _what on Nirn does that mean?!_"

"It means," the gravelly voice of Teldryn returned from the back, nearly making Antony spur his horse on in a gallop in surprise. "That we'll be making them believe that Mehrunes Dagon himself is coming to kill them."

"What?!"

Marcus and Teldryn both laughed airily at his flabbergasted expression.

The former pulled out a map from his leather satchel, and his entire demeanor shifted to a cautious one. It made him look slightly awkward while riding his horse rather than the picture of an immaculate equestrian he usually portrayed.

"I'm not stupid, you know, there's an actual reason why we're marching through Elsweyr to get to Bravil besides '_they won't expect us_,' and that reason is this."

Antony had to squint to see what Captain Agrippa meant, "The Oblivion Gate's ruins, you're not planning on opening one, are you?" He asked only half-joking, as he knew for a fact that his Captain _was_ some sort of Daedra Worshipper, through which Prince he confided in Antony couldn't even begin to guess at.

"Divines no," Marcus began shaking his head with a low laugh. "Even I'm not that crazy, besides the only ones capable of performing that particular feat besides the Daedric Princes themselves are the Sload."

It took a second for Antony to place that name, but when he did, he raised his eyebrows in distress, "You mean those Slug people that live off the coast of Hammerfell?"

Agrippa smiled wanly at him, "The very same, though, don't worry if they haven't done it, yet it means they probably won't."

"That answer just fills me with confidence."

Agrippa laughed again, "In all seriousness, though we won't be opening the gate, we will make them think it has opened."

"How?"

"Trickery, the head of those Necromancers that are meeting us there is actually arguably better at Illusion than he is at Conjuration. So a fancy light show that'll make it seem like the dormant gate has awoken won't be beyond him, the rest of his people will summon as many Atronachs as they can and make them charge down. From there, we just send out our Cavalry with the whistles I commissioned and watch the chaos unfold."

Antony pursed his lips and pondered the newly revealed information.

"You do realize that this whole plan hinges on whoever is in command of Bravil's garrison sallying out to help us or that numerical advantage I spoke about earlier is going to be the deciding factor no matter how much the morale of the enemy is diminished."

"I do," Marcus returned firmly. "But you needn't worry, Leyawiin fell in a week, and Bravil has held for a year. Commander Cassius is good at his job, and I have supreme confidence that he'll do right by us."

Antony doubted that. He still remembered the words he exchanged with Teldryn when the Captain first came to the fort. _Marcus believes there's only one officer in the Empire who knows how to do things correctly, himself, and quite frankly, there is some truth to that_.

"Why did those Necromancers agree to help us?"

"High-Elf corpses are rare, very rare, and yet probably the most valuable for magical study. They get to keep said corpses, and we get a victory, fair trade in my book."

Antony shivered internally. In his mind, some lines should not be crossed in war, this was one of them. Still, then again, the stringent terms the Dominion proposed in their ultimatum were nothing to sneeze at either. It was as Marcus was fond of saying, "_Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures._"

"Why didn't you tell us this earlier, you realize the men are just as jittery as me, right?"

Marcus furrowed his brows and looked around, then in a low voice, answered. "The Thalmor have ears were there shouldn't be any. Even now, I'm not sure they aren't listening. Still, I'm telling you now because we're only three days march from Bravil, meaning we'll arrive fast enough to nullify any advantage their spies would otherwise give them."

Antony was about to respond, but Marcus held up a hand as they watched one of their outriders approaching as if he were running from the aforementioned Daedric Prince.

"Out with it, soldier," Marcus barked when he was in earshot, "what's got you so jittery?"

"An army captain," he said urgently, "judging by the sigil, it looks like most of Rimmen's garrison has come out to meet us!" The scout continued, giving a brief report on the numbers and composition of the army they would soon expect to face. _No mages, thank the divines for that, _Antony thought with a grateful sigh.

Marcus ground his teeth in annoyance, "Rest and tend to your horse soldier, I daresay you have earned it." The scout nodded gratefully and did as asked, meanwhile Marcus turned to the both of them, an intense scowl affixed on his features.

"3000 fucking cavalry-men!" Marcus said, gnashing his teeth, "How?! We were so fucking careful!"

Antony looked over at Teldryn for advice on how to respond, but for all that he received as an answer, he may as well have been staring at a brick wall. It turned out that the Captain's exclamations were mostly him airing out his thoughts in a rhetorical manner, and he hadn't expected an answer at all.

"Alright, alright," he began gradually calming down with deep breaths, "ok, it looks like it's time to improvise. Judging by the man's estimates, the damn cats will be here in less than a day, that's enough time to erect a few meaningful defenses, but the terrain here is _not_ doing us any favors."

Taking a look around Antony had to silently agree, they were in the middle of a dense forest, not quite as thick as the West Weald they were accustomed to, but with enough trees to make setting up their artillery which would give them an advantage troublesome in such a short amount of time. They could be damn sure that the Khajit had the home-field power.

Marcus looked around for a moment and seemed to get a certain glint in his eyes, "Tell the men to march further towards _that_," Marcus said, pointing at one of the tallest mountains Antony had ever spotted along the border, "and tell them to double-time it, leave behind the surplus supplies if you have to, just make sure we still have enough halberds by the time we arrive."

"You're not planning to retreat?" Teldryn asked surprised, and Marcus shook his head, a firm 'no' to their probabilities of staying alive rising then, Antony thought.

"You do realize we're outnumbered, and most of our cavalry will take time to catch up to us, right?"

Marcus nodded, "That's why I want to fight with that mountain to our backs, less chance of the men fleeing if they have to flee _towards_ enemy lancers instead of away from them, and it makes it impossible for them to catch us in a double-envelopment, limiting their options. Don't worry, effective use of Cavalry might be devastating on the battlefield, so the solution is simple, we just have to stop the enemy from using their Cavalry effectively."

Teldryn laughed, and Antony shook his head as he left to carry out their orders.

* * *

  
The sky was still quite dark by the time Antony awoke, but the sunlight was slowly starting to creep behind the mountain where they had made their camp. One of his bodyguards was shaking him, but he had awakened well before then. One couldn't very well sleep with war-horns blaring throughout the field, a loud, clear, and strangely angry noise that managed to invade a pleasant dream he was having before then.

He doused his face with water, and his armor came on almost automatically. Exiting the tent, he saw the men running to and from, in the sort of organized chaos one could only observe in an army camp that was preparing for an immediate battle.

He ran through the tents which were quickly being dismantled at a brisk pace, it was a jarring sight to see, they had moved so fast they lacked any camp followers so the nervousness in the din of the encampment was even more palpable than it would usually be before a fight.

Eventually, he reached the unit he would be commanding for the fight, the men that had been in the garrison the longest, and he could safely say the most excellent infantry on the divines' green Nirn. He wouldn't get a chance to talk to his Commander as Marcus decided to take charge of Bibilus' cavalrymen, the most likely to desert, and Teldryn had command of the archers that were poised behind Antony's units to blunt the strength of Rimmen's Cavalry before they met the infantry.

A shame, really. Marcus was no great orator like some of the councilors from the capitol he could name, but he could still be reassuring, and that was something he needed with a plan this insane. He let out a deep breath, needed was a strong word, he didn't need it he wanted it. The only thing he needed to do right now was follow orders, _service is purpose_.

He blew the whistle that hung on his neck in three quick short bursts as he the scouts informed him of the enemy cavalry's imminent approach. Instantly several of the standard-bearers turned signalmen raised red banners with a large white cross in their center, indicating the formation they would have to assume for the duration of the fight. Antony rarely felt pride in anyone, including himself, but when the men got into the proper "Swiss Formation" in the blink of an eye, he could safely say he was proud of his men, and he was sure Marcus would be too.

To be fair, this was a particular maneuver with pikes that they had drilled the most, partly because it was so useful but mostly because out of all the odd formations Agrippa had introduced, this was the most complicated one. It involved standing in rows that formed ten by ten squares, and each man had to hold his pike in a particular way to maintain mobility for the unit and avoid skewering an ally while maximizing the chances of running an enemy horseman through with a pike.

He had been in cavalry charges before, but never on the receiving end. It was pants-shittingly terrifying especially because a lot of the cats weren't riding on horses, but preferably on what could only be described as giant versions of housecats that could carry three to four of their humanoid brethren on their backs effortlessly and could still run with the grace of regular horses, _not to mention that according to Marcus they're just as smart as any man_.

The charge barreled on to them with all the force of an avalanche, and while he knew that intellectually there were only about three thousand of them, it seemed like the entirety of Elsweyr was out for their blood at the moment. He didn't bother to suppress a smirk of satisfaction as he saw some of the horses and even giant cats tumble only to be trampled by their companions as a result of the 'caltrops' they had scattered over the field.

Still, the charge held on, and Antony was confident that the wooden stakes they had planted here and there and the small stream behind which they had made camp wouldn't be enough to spare the infantry from the assault.

He heard a horn, followed by Teldryn's bellowing voice that managed to carry over the thundering of the horses' hooves. "Loose!" The Dunmer had screamed only for the sky to be darkened by dozens of pinpricks that crashed and felled a countless number of enemy combatants. The process was repeated several times over, presumably only stopping after they'd run out of arrows.

_Not enough_, he thought, _not nearly enough._

Eventually, the enemy cavalry reached them, he blew the whistle, and the porcupines bared their spines. He braced for a loud crash, but to his surprise, found that the horses refused to charge into their spears, only some of the Khajit mounds were brave or stupid enough yet all, but one was skewered for their trouble.

The enemy commander was smarter than he looked, however, as he tried to flank them. Antony blew his whistle in the pre-arranged pattern and the way everyone held their pikes shifted, once again denying their enemy the advantage.

The game of what one could only call Khajit and Imperial kept going for a few rounds, long enough that the sun had reached its zenith rather than its initial position that had served to blind the enemy during their initial charge.

Antony finally heard the sound he was praying for. A low guttural whine of a war-horn and horses that didn't belong to the enemy. With a bloodthirsty grin, Antony said the words that every mindless berserker yearned to hear.

"Charge!" The enemy was caught flatfooted, Marcus' wild counterattack functioned as the hammer, while Antony's orderly advance made up the Anvil.

The enemy scattered like dust in the wind. And it wasn't long before he could hear the cheers of his men echo off of the mountains to their backs.

Still, he had to interrupt at least momentarily. He blew his whistle, and instantly, there was silence. He hid his smile; _he could really get used to that_.

He put on his 'commander voice' so that every man around him could hear him.

"Men, I apologize for interrupting in your moment of victory, but the Commander asked me to share a few words with you all if I may," some men nodded. However, they knew full well he was only asking for consent out of curtesy, "If we survive, then congratulations, feel free to have fun and loot as many corpses as you can, but don't get drunk just yet you magnificent bastards, we're still in enemy territory. Still, you shall go down like heroes in your own right and even if you don't win a place alongside the divines. I personally guarantee you Tiber Septim is going to want to congratulate each and every one of you in person, but hopefully not for a while yet. For now, enjoy yourselves!"

It wasn't the greatest of speeches but mixed with the euphoria of victory against overwhelming odds, the reaction was comparable to what would've happened if Martin Septim had returned from the dead. All of the men began chanting _Agrippa! Agrippa! Agrippa!_

Antony found the Commander himself inside his tent, nursing a goblet of wine. Which he found to be the height of hypocrisy given his announcement and pouring over several detailed maps of Cyrodil and Elsweyr. He didn't speak, he knew it was his duty to wait for Marcus to air his thoughts when he felt like it.

"How many men did you lose?" He asked quietly, he wasn't in mourning for them Antony knew that much at least. Some men thought of the Commander as a father, but he thought of them as investments, nothing more. It pained him to sacrifice them, true enough, but merely as it would hurt a man to lose a few Septims while gambling, nothing more nothing less.

"More than I'd hoped, less than I expected." Antony answered, "We lost about a quarter of our Infantry because of that horse- or should I say cat-archers, though I should note that's including the archers that got caught up in the fighting."

Agrippa visibly grimaced, "Yes, their Khajit mounts were more dangerous than expected. They're like extremely maneuverable chariots and siege platforms that can think for themselves."

Antony stayed quiet and nodded gravely, though he broke the silence when he sensed no further insight was coming, "Do we march on Bravil?"

"No," Agrippa answered, tapping at one of the maps impatiently. "We no longer have the cavalry, oblivion, even we had some of our infantry ride enemy horses, it still wouldn't be enough."

"Well, we can't stay here," Antony stated matter-of-factly, and his Commander shot him a withering glare. It took him a moment to realize why _Marcus lost most of his Cavalry_. For all his genius, the man wasn't someone who cared for leading from the front. He_ just realized how messy it is_.

"No, we can't," he finally answered after a pause and a massive sigh. "We'll head back to Cyrodil the way we came, take some time to rest at the fort. Then head up to link with General Flavius' Army that's defending the Capital from Naarfin, we'll try to disrupt Arranelya's supply chain all the while."

Antony nodded an excellent plan. Though he could tell Marcus was disappointed in not having been able to relieve Bravil and cut Lord Naarfin's supply chain in one fell swoop. _The man cares more about going down in history than winning the war_, Antony had long ago realized. Though truth be told, he didn't care overmuch because at least for now those goals aligned.

Marcus took a deep drought of the wine before an odd spark came over him, "Mark, could you hand me that book over there, please? No-yes the large one."

It was a large-ish leather-bound tome with the words '_A Gentleman's Guide to the Dominion_' embossed in southern Cyrodilic on the front. Agrippa began flipping through the pages before a look of realization passed on his face.

"Antony," he began with a smile that sent shivers down his spine, "We march on Rimmen." 


End file.
